Your Need For Love Makes You Easy Prey
by sunsetdreamer
Summary: The bulletins continue and before long she's staring at a far-too-festive sheet of paper containing more than a dozen things that are absolutely wrong with Booth's declaration the night before. Post Season 8 finale.


No matter how mad the show makes me (and it does make me so very mad), I still can't let it go. So I throw this into the ring alongside the million other post finale fics in hopes I can just stop thinking about it. I'll admit that I don't really 'hear' the characters when I'm writing anymore, so it isn't much, but it's all I've got. *salutes*

* * *

**Your Need For Love Makes You Easy Prey**

_Kiss me like you love me, I'll pretend we've never lied.  
__**We've Never Lied, **__Jessica Lea Mayfield_

When he finally goes up to their bedroom, he's mostly expecting to wake up alone.

(to an empty bed at best, to an empty house at worst)

But he wakes before she does and blinks against the light of the bright alarm clock reading 5:13am, and he watches her still form curled around the edge of the mattress until he can't any longer. And he is the one who abandons their bed, their home, before she even gets the opportunity to consider it.

He's angry as he silently descends the stairs two at a time. Frustrated while he aimlessly paces the ground floor before pulling on his coat and fumbling through his pockets for his keys. _Sad_. And he hates knowing that this has already become another thing that Pelant has taken from them. Because it wouldn't matter if he were to go upstairs right now and find a way to tell her everything; the damage is done and the next time she asks – _if _she asks – this will be hanging over them in the same way _it_ had when they (he) had attempted to recreate a dozen missed milestones following Brennan and Christine's return.

He's more than halfway to the office when the vehicle changes direction seemingly of its own accord and heads toward the small bakery that carries his partner's favourite muffins. What he thinks muffins will accomplish given the enormity of this new Thing, he doesn't know. But he thinks of her and breakfast and decides that running – when they already seem to be operating on borrowed time – is a really stupid thing to do.

The woman at the counter recognises him and he tries to focus on the idle chat. Ask questions. Smile. Engage. And when he leaves, he feels just a little more tired than he had been when he started.

* * *

She's awakened by the sound of her daughter giggling to herself over the baby monitor on the nightstand. Confident that Christine will continue to entertain herself for several minutes, Brennan takes a moment to stretch and then stares at the ceiling as she contemplates the past twenty four hours along with how the hell _Booth _has evidently managed to be the one to do the leaving today.

On the one hand, she had been blindsided yesterday and she appreciates the opportunity this solitude gives her to think, because time and space seem to become rarer the longer she and Booth are together. On the other hand, while she has never been engaged before yesterday, it seems to her that the individual ending the engagement should not be the individual entitled to storm out of the house before dawn.

Christine's babbles turn into repetitive calls for her parents, and Brennan flips off the blanket and turns down the monitor before heading into the next room.

Only to find that her child is missing from her crib.

There's an immediate flutter of panic in her chest that she feels so often concerning Christine, and the fact that she _knows _she had heard the baby's voice not fifteen seconds earlier does nothing to lessen it (and she hopes it will get easier. She really does. Because while she is not one to blindly _hope _for things, it is taxing to hurt so often). But it takes less than three seconds for Christine to call for her again, and Brennan finds the one and a half year old sitting in the corner, tugging unsuccessfully on the handle of a low drawer.

"Hello," she laughs, walking the short distance to her daughter and settling on the floor beside her. "You are very clever."

The self satisfaction in Christine's smile reminds Brennan of Booth, and though the stab of betrayal is less than it had been the previous night in their living room, there's this faint little tug in her stomach that she has to actively ignore.

"While I am impressed by your display of cognitive and motor functions, in the future, I would prefer you to wait for my assistance."

Christine's response involves arbitrary syllables integrated with the occasional recognisable English word. From this, Brennan concludes that her daughter's concerns lie more with breakfast than with crib safety.

"Fine. But I feel obligated to inform you that I will be adjusting the height of your mattress today so that this does not happen again. Or at least, not for quite some time."

She gives Christine a stern look that the child is months away from appreciating before bringing her downstairs and placing her in the high chair next to the island. And the morning feels normal for a time. But halfway through her first cup of coffee, the deadbolt turns in the front door and the unexpected intrusion sucks her illusion of peace out of the air and leaves her feeling the way she had the night before. Apprehensive. Stunted. Because she just doesn't understand what's happening to them.

Booth hesitates just inside the door, but it only takes him a moment to recover and she pretends not to notice.

"Hey; you're up."

A beat passes, during which Brennan stares steadily and gives Booth a chance to add something of substance. When he doesn't, she rests her mug on the island, glances at it, and then pushes it away.

"It's after seven, Booth."

Booth nods. "Right. Because, Christine."

Brennan shakes her head and then stands, busying herself with freeing their daughter. "You don't need to tiptoe, Booth. I will admit that it hadn't occurred to me that you would change your mind, but this is far from the worst thing to happen to us. I know you love me, and we're fine."

Fine. Fine fine fine. That word they use when they are anything but.

"So I'll see you at work?"

"If we have a case, absolutely."

It doesn't take a genius to read between the lines on that one.

* * *

She doesn't answer her phone when he calls to ask her to lunch. It's not out of the ordinary for this to occur when she's working in bone storage – and she doesn't give him the pre-complete ring off, as she tends to do when she's _furious _– but it's a little bit of a stretch to assume that this is unrelated to their personal lives. One hour and three more missed calls later, Booth resigns himself to the vending machine and old coffee, because going to the diner alone lacks a certain appeal. And by the time he returns to his office, it is no longer unoccupied.

"Congratulations!"

Cam's voice is higher than usual, but she manages to keep her tone relatively subdued. However, there is nothing subdued about how tightly she hugs him.

"Cam-

"It didn't feel right to say anything while Pelant was hanging around – fantastic timing, by the way – but you're marrying your dream girl, Booth. And I've never seen her look so happy."

Booth steps back and moves around the desk and wonders why there suddenly is just not enough _space _in here anymore.

"Cam."

She's had time by now to take in the stoic set of his jaw, and the smile immediately drops from her face.

"What," she asks warily.

He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. He tells himself that no one's opinion matters on this. It's no one's business. Not even Cam's.

"We're not getting married."

Cam's eyes widen. "She changed her mind?" Her voice is incredulous, but she's known him for years and only a second passes before her expression flattens and she places her hands on her hips. "_You_ changed your mind."

Booth decides he's had enough of her company and sits, rifling through papers while waiting for her to go the fuck away. Unfortunately, none of the women in his life are easily deterred.

"What the hell, Seeley."

He's about to get defensive. About to be abrasive with her in a manner she in no way deserves, but there are goddamn perks to being friends with a person for more than half your lifetime; there's very little you can say or do that can't be forgiven. Less like friends, more like the family you're born with rather than the family you choose. However, Cam continues talking before he can begin and though the words don't necessarily surprise him, he finds it mildly perturbing that she gets to be the one to be abrasive.

"You know what? I take it back; I don't want to know. I should get back to the lab."

"You're not even curious?"

There's annoyance and indignation from him (and a tiny stab of hurt, if he were willing to be honest. Which he isn't), and not even a hint of regret or apology from Cam.

She shrugs. "It doesn't make any real difference to me. And I'm willing to bet it definitely doesn't to Dr. Brennan."

"It's for her, Camille."

"It usually is. How's that working out for you?"

* * *

Angela wants to discuss wedding ideas the first free moment they have, and Brennan regrets telling her so soon. If she had waited _one_ _day_,this uncomfortable conversation could have been avoided. And if she were a little more like Booth, she could almost believe this to be some sort of cosmic payback for shifting her focus from the case onto something so lacking in professionalism in the middle of an investigation. But she's not anything like Booth, and she rips off the band-aid without hesitation.

"We're not getting married. Booth doesn't think it's a good idea."

"_What_?!"

Brennan does a half turn on the couch cushion to better face her friend, because pretending to be busy while Angela peppers her with questions only draws out the conversation, and she just wants to be done with it as soon as possible.

"There isn't going to be a wedding. I'll return your magazine tomorrow."

"I don't care about the magazine, Brennan."

Angela appears to be working herself up to a lengthy tirade, and the thought of listening to her throw obscenities in an Angela-styled declaration of her loyalties leaves Brennan feeling tired.

"It's not the end of the world, Angela."

"But-

"I do not want to discuss it, okay?" All intentions of keeping aloof go out the window and since she's already broken character, she just keeps going. "It's stupid and embarrassing and I just want to forget that it happened. So please, do not say whatever it is you are thinking of saying to Booth the next time you see him."

Angela frowns and shakes her head. "Don't get me wrong... next time Booth shows up here I'm going to be tempted to kick him in the ass – and if the opportunity presents itself I'm _absolutely _going to spit in his coffee – but here's what I know, sweetie; he loves you. And given everything I know about Booth, something here does not make sense."

Angela returns to her office and Brennan leans back in the seat, and though she's been trying very hard not to think about the past day and a half, she allows herself a moment to dwell on it.

Because sometimes when something does not make sense, it just takes knowing that it also does not make sense to _one other person_ for you to gain the confidence you need to believe you're not losing your mind.

* * *

She makes a list soon after she gets home. Sits down on the living room floor with their daughter, clenches a Brick Red Crayola crayon (it's a spontaneous decision, the list, and with Christine being as active as she is, she can't turn her back for the moment it would take to find a proper pen), flips over the well scribbled upon, jungle themed sheet torn from Christine's colouring book, and _thinks_.

Booth has always, always been in favour of marriage.

Booth loves her.

Eye contact is so very important to Booth and yet, yesterday...

The bulletins continue and before long she's staring at a far-too-festive sheet of paper containing more than a dozen things that are absolutely _wrong_ with Booth's declaration the night before. And then she's forced to spend twenty seconds wrestling the Fuchsia coloured crayon out of her daughter's stubborn (and _strong_) mouth.

"Mine," Christine declares adamantly.

"The fact that these were purchased for you has no bearing on the fact that you are not allowed to eat them."

"Uh oh; what'd she do to bring out your teacher voice?"

She jumps. She hadn't even heard the door and she _jumps _and just like that, they are off to a bad start. Since yesterday, she's cycled through surprise, hurt, frustration, hurt _again_, and – as usual – when the anger hits, it hits hard. But she swallows it. Because who knows what she'll be left with when it's gone.

"She's exercising her right to an opinion. Unfortunately for her, at this stage in her life the majority of her opinions have very little impact on my actions."

Booth laughs and she (again) pretends she doesn't hear how forced it is while he (again) pretends not to notice the way she repositions their daughter between them as he approaches.

When he sits down, he's determined to begin bridging this latest gap between them. And not with a perfunctory enquiry as to their being okay (because they are so very much not okay. Again), but by ensuring there is no doubt in her mind that he is exactly where he wants to be. By gaining back her trust no matter how long it takes. But before he can start, his name in red crayon catches his eye.

"What's this?"

He reaches for the page and Brennan snatches it off the floor, but not before he's skimmed enough to get the gist of it.

Good intentions take an immediate backseat to panic.

They are off to a very bad start, indeed.

"Work," she answers flippantly.

There's a stubborn rise of her chin as she lies, and ultimately that is what sets him off. This isn't a game he's willing to play and though it's not rational, though it's his own doing (Pelant's doing), part of him is jealous that her being unaware of the situation means that she gets to behave as if this is the beginning of just any fight between them. As if there are not lives at stake.

(And her life is always his primary concern at the end of the day. Because while the deaths of three people would weigh heavily enough on his conscience, he doesn't believe for a moment that Pelant would stop at that)

"Give it to me."

"No."

"Bones-

"I said no, Booth. It doesn't belong to you."

He presses the heel of his hand into his forehead and stands. "Why can't you ever just listen to anybody?"

Brennan can't swallow the anger anymore. She jumps up and steps into his space, eyes flashing. "I listen, Booth. You push and push and push and _I listen to you _and then you-

She realises she's said so much more than she had meant to. And that's the problem with being angry. There's never any way of knowing beforehand whether an outburst will ultimately leave her feeling better or worse.

Today, she feels worse. And there's a beat that passes as they stare one another down, as he silently dares her to finish her sentence, when it would be so _easy _to close the distance between their mouths and table this just long enough for them to work out their frustrations physically, and maybe not have to deal with the emotions that have been stirred. But they pull away at the same time, remembering – even now – the weeks when sex had been all they'd had. Even now, it doesn't seem worth it.

Booth takes a deep breath and tries again, speaking through gritted teeth because there is a difference between being willing and being able. "Can't you just let this go?"

"What I do in my spare time is none of your business."

"Because you're a free agent, right? Because you just get to do whatever the hell you want to do with no thought to anyone else?"

Her jaw clenches, and then without another word she heads for the door.

"Seriously?" Booth says to her back incredulously.

"Christine hasn't eaten yet. You'll have to feed her."

"You're really going to leave. Just like that."

The door slams and he gets his answer.

* * *

She doesn't even make it to the driveway.

She hesitates once she's off the porch and shifts her weight from foot to foot as she deliberates, but ultimately she sits down on the bottom step and decides that, for now, the quiet street and the cool air are good enough.

They don't talk about the shooting. Sometimes she catches his eyes lingering on the scar on her belly the way her eyes always find the scar just above his heart. But they do not talk about it.

One night in the hospital – after her father had left, after their friends had left, back when it had been so new and raw they hadn't _wanted _to talk about it so much as they had felt _compelled _to – there had been low, vehement conversation about everything that had happened. About everything they would do differently. About everything in between. And though she had been tired, she had watched the rapid movements of his eyes and understood that this wasn't the doing of guilt alone for Booth (though she knows, among so many other things, how very guilty he feels). The killer had been caught and she had been moved out of the ICU and with nothing left to _do_, there had only been the knowledge that someone special to him had been taken and returned so many times in so few hours, they needed to be memorised anew before it could happen again.

So she had let him talk. And she had talked. And though much of those first weeks remains hazy in her memories, what she does remember is making a mental note to try harder not to _leave _when they argue. Because things happen time and time again in their line of work and no matter how angry she is at Booth, she does not ever want to become another reason for his cosmic balance sheet.

* * *

It takes less than half a minute for Booth to begin rushing around the ground floor, grabbing necessities for Christine and cursing as the time following Brennan's exit grows. Eventually he has a diaper bag filled with everything he may need and he picks up Christine, puts on her jacket and tears out after his partner.

Four months ago, she had left after a stupid fight and it had almost been the end of the life they had built together.

Damned if he is going to give history a chance to repeat itself.

He's already at a half run by the time he opens the door, and he almost falls right over her.

Booth and Brennan are both (equally and immediately) glad that his reflexes are exemplary and he neither drops nor crushes their child. Christine is her mother's daughter, and she laughs while Booth's heart hammers against his ribcage.

"Jesus, Bones."

"Are you okay?"

She shifts to one side and he settles beside her, giving Christine the opportunity to crawl into her lap. "Yeah."

He feels the shiver that travels through his partner more than he sees it, and he digs through the diaper bag still slung over his shoulder until he finds the black cardigan he had stuffed into it.

Brennan hesitates before taking it from his outstretched hand, but her features go soft as she slips it on. "Thank you."

"Sure." They begin to settle into that old routine of using Christine as a buffer; interacting with her more than one another because it's easier. Because it doesn't hurt. But he watches Brennan cradle Christine close and trace the lines of her tiny hands with a gentle finger, whispering the names of the bones as she goes, and he has to say _something _before he explodes over how utterly screwed up it is that he can't just enjoy this. He loves her. She loves him. And they should get to be happy. "So... you're still here."

Brennan looks up from Christine's palm and shrugs. "We both parked in the driveway. Your car is blocking me in."

Booth raises an eyebrow and calls her bluff. "Would you like me to move it?"

Her eyes narrow and then she goes back to studying their daughter's hands. "Whatever you want, Booth."

She doesn't want to fight with him. Not really. But the 'free agent' barb had hit its mark and added on top of the irrational, persistent sting brought on by her offering something big and him rejecting it, engaging in any sort of discussion seems too likely to involve more risk than reward.

Booth leans back on his palms and gazes absently at the houses lining the other side of the street. And he thinks, he _thinks _that maybe there's a way to lead her in the right direction. Because the truth is, he's in a serious, committed relationship with a genius and he's realising (late, because fear for those you love makes it difficult to see reason, but realising _now _just the same) that it has always been only a matter of time before she figures it out. Based on what he had seen in the living room, she's already halfway there and it's barely been a day.

He makes a decision, because having her figure out that Pelant is involved and confronting him about it while they are being watched is infinitely more dangerous than having him tell her without telling her, and trusting that she will be smart enough to connect the dots and play along.

"Do you ever wonder how many times one of us has brought a neighbour to a window?"

Brennan raises her head again and furrows her brow, and Booth gets the distinct impression that her patience for mundane questions is at an all time low tonight.

But she answers. Grudgingly.

(and this says a lot)

"What reason would they have to watch us from a window?"

Booth shrugs. "You know. There were a million cops crawling all over the place last summer..." Brennan stiffens again and he rushes on, "... and there's all the times we've torn out of here like something's on fire to get to a crime scene. Or when we come back arguing about evidence. Or when we're still arguing three hours later and one of us leaves. Loudly."

Brennan can't help rolling her eyes. She'd rather they not talk at all than talk about stupid things. "I don't care what our neighbours think. I don't even know them."

"I'm only asking because, sometimes I wonder if they – if _anyone_ – who sees us every day, gets as distracted by us as we do."

"Booth, if you're finding something about our relationship unsatisfactory, then just _say _it. Don't use other people to-

"What I'm saying is," he cuts in abruptly, "there are things we're both very good at hiding. How we feel about each other, good or bad, has never been one of them. I just think it's interesting, that's all. And annoying, to be honest. And frustrating. There isn't a hell of a lot that gets to be ours."

It bothers her less now than it had not so long ago, but she remembers the feeling of not being in control. The frustration of knowing everyone around her had formed conclusions about her feelings and Booth's feelings before the two of them had the time and confidence to express them.

She thinks of loud arguments in bars, crime scenes, parking lots, the lab... they've made more public scenes than she can count. And when he's happy, when she _knows _that _she _is the one who has made him happy, God. It's written all over his face. She imagines, based on what she's heard from Angela (based on what she feels in herself), that she is the same way.

_Booth has always, always been in favour of marriage._

_Booth loves her._

_Eye contact is so very important to Booth and yet, yesterday..._

There is something crucial here and she almost has it.

Christine lunges for Booth and he catches her easily, settling her in his lap. Brennan watches as he continues her game, retracing the bones in their daughter's hand and reciting them to the best of his memory. The names are correct sometimes and incorrect others, but that's not the thing that matters.

Sometimes, he is listening too.

It causes an uncomfortable thickening in her throat.

"I know you're mad, Bones. But let's just take this inside, okay?"

She's about to ask him why the opinion of their neighbours is suddenly so important to him when that last _thing _slides into place and she realises that this isn't about neighbours at all. And inside isn't any more private than outside.

_There isn't a hell of a lot that gets to be theirs._

The surge of rage is swift but for the second time today Brennan manages to contain it. While the _why _is still unclear, she can revert back to an early version of herself that does not care about motive (_**You're **__the motive guy_) and focus, for now, on this new knowledge that Pelant is pulling their strings once again and watching the fallout. She will not focus on any of the whys. Why Pelant cares whether or not they're married. Why Booth hadn't included her before. Why he is including her now. Why she hadn't figured it out on her own. Why her objectivity slips further and further away from her the longer they're together. Why she stays when in some respects it would be so much easier to go.

When she is sure that her emotions are under control she allows herself to look at her partner. "Remember the Halloween when we were Clark Kent and Wonder Woman?"

Booth can't begin to determine what brought this to mind, but this doesn't seem like an appropriate time for teasing or questions. "What about it?"

"I'm not mad at you for shooting me."

He raises an eyebrow. "How much wine did you have before I got in, Bones?"

She feigns an exasperated sigh. Because she has always been very good at acting when it matters the most. When it pertains to Booth. "I haven't been drinking, Booth. You brought up our penchant for public displays of certain passions, and I am bringing up a time when such a display ended in you shooting me. By accident. I know that it was an accident. I've never told you that I wasn't mad. Not even then."

Booth's gaze meets hers sharply. "We were arguing."

Brennan's stomach unclenches. "Yes. While chasing a suspect. And I distracted you."

"And you got shot."

"It was a ricochet, Booth. It doesn't count. I didn't even require medical attention."

He understands then what she's doing and why she's chosen this particular event. It's before Pelant, but more importantly, while it's possible there is some long forgotten news article featuring a grainy photo of Special Agent Seeley Booth as Squint and Dr. Temperance Brennan as Wonder Woman, the details of the injuries are their own. Because getting shot by your partner and being dropped on your head are not details that you voluntarily share when it can be avoided.

And his stomach unclenches too.

"I still feel bad about that."

"Why?"

"Why? Because it's my job to protect you, Bones. When you get hurt, I never stop carrying that with me."

There are fragments of truth leaking into their lies now, and the gaps between their sentences grow longer as they are forced to be more and more careful about what they choose to say.

"You should have told me," Brennan says softly.

And they're not talking about Halloween and who shot who for what reason anymore.

It's not an accusation. Not really. But Booth finds himself stiffening regardless and shrugging his shoulders. He's had this debate with himself a thousand times and the fact remains that regardless of whether or not he _should _have, he hadn't.

"But," she continues, "I can understand why you didn't."

He looks at her then. Because there's a difference between understanding and _understanding _and oftentimes when they are at their most adamant about how much, how _well _they understand, they don't.

But before he can get a solid read on her, she stands and stretches. "You're right, Booth. Let's go inside."

* * *

They mostly stay out of one another's way for the rest of the evening. Hours later, Christine is asleep in her newly adjusted crib and Booth and Brennan lie in the dark in their own bed, eyes closed as they pretend to be asleep. As they pretend their pulses aren't racing wildly.

It's reminiscent of undercover assignments past, when they had shared a bed and feigned being far more comfortable with the arrangement than they had been. Only then they had left as much room as they could manage between one another and now they lie entangled because this is what they are supposed to be.

They've had time to digest the new facts:

Booth had lied.

Brennan now understands the basics of what's happened even if the finer details are still a mystery.

He feels torn between panic and relief, while she feels a different sort of betrayal.

"I was thinking we could do something this weekend. Something just the three of us."

"Something like what?" she asks warily.

She can't pinpoint when exactly he had become so _fixated _on idealistic vacations, nor can she understand the thought process behind it. Both these things worry her. Because he is supposed to know her better than to believe she could be happy doing nothing on a beach and she's supposed to know him well enough to eventually figure out why he's acting so stubborn on the subject of this meaningless thing.

Any talk of 'doing something' of late gets her guard up.

Booth sighs. "Nothing crazy, Bones. Just... maybe we could get in the car Saturday and see where we end up."

They spend so much time driving together that it should have long since lost its appeal, but whether it is the normalcy of the action or the calming effect brought on by the memory of intimate, revelatory car rides past, it is the kind of mindless activity that never seems mindless with Booth. Brennan fights to control the involuntary fluttering in her stomach.

And suddenly she doesn't care that Pelant is listening.

"One day, I will ask you again."

Her voice is soft against his chest. Booth can feel the puff of warm air that leaves her mouth as she speaks. He tightens his hold on her; the arm slung casually around her shoulders pulling her closer, closer, as if he can absorb her into him. As if they can be one person, understood, so that they wouldn't have to endure these awful _gaps _that spike between them. So that one of them wouldn't always have to be hurting.

He can't think of a reply, so he says nothing. And she says nothing. And they exist, two nothings together, for several seconds before Brennan speaks again.

"Promise me you won't ask me."

It feels as though they've taken leaps backward. Again. He crushed her heart, and there is a part of herself she can't quite trust to him. Again. Not yet. She thinks of him proposing and the old familiar stab of panic is quick to follow. And she is too raw to consider making herself that vulnerable.

"I promise."

"One day, Booth."

"Sure, Bones."

One hand draws the fabric of his worn t-shirt into a fist. "I would like to go for a drive with you."

After a moment, Booth accepts the olive branch. Because they have to start somewhere and it may as well be in a car. His hand slides beneath her tank top to rest on the bare skin of her abdomen.

"Okay. It's a date."

"I don't believe it's traditional for couples to bring their children on dates, Booth."

"To hell with tradition, Bones."

"You like tradition."

"Not as much as I like you."

She laughs at this. A genuine, deep laugh that causes her stomach muscles to tighten under his hand.

"Too much?" he asks, tickling her ribs lightly.

"Definitely," she nods against his chest.

"Right."

Brennan rolls away from him to lie comfortably on her side. It's not in her nature to be sure that they will last thirty, or forty, or fifty years, but in this moment she feels as close as she can to sure that they will last the weekend. Experience has taught her that one day she will wake up and this will not hurt the way that it does now.

Booth pauses (there are so many pauses when they fall away from one another; as they measure their own words and actions, as they measure the words and actions of their partner) but after a beat, he, too, turns on his side and aligns his body with hers.

They're back to where this had begun tonight; pretending to sleep. Pretending that breathing is easy when they are this close. But their heart rates have settled (or, close to it) and when his hand slowly comes to rest on her hip, her foot curls back to rest against his calf.

And when their daughter's voice (once again) precedes the alarm the next morning, they find that they are both still in bed to hear it.


End file.
